


Marks of the Beast

by matchstick_dolly



Series: Matches After Midnight [19]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, BAMF Lucifer Morningstar, Boss/Employee Relationship, Brave Chloe Decker, Chloe says ACAB?, Corruption, Dark, F/M, Fuckruary 2021, Fuckruary 2021: Once Upon A Time, Fuckruary 2021: Size Queen, God plays The Sims, Humor, Lucifer Morningstar is still the Devil, POV Chloe, POV Lucifer, Season 1 Reimagining, Sex Work, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:08:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29492598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchstick_dolly/pseuds/matchstick_dolly
Summary: When the Devil posts a job ad for a new bartender at Lux, nothing can prepare him for sassy mixologist Chloe Decker, her irreverent ink, or her dark past.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Series: Matches After Midnight [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620778
Comments: 74
Kudos: 182
Collections: LUCIFER_FICS_





	1. You're Hired

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elleflies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elleflies/gifts).



> For [Fuckruary 2021](https://fuckruarychallenge.tumblr.com) prompts: AUs, Lux, penthouse.

The last of the job interviews done, Lucifer sighed into the quiet emptiness of his upscale bar. Good help was hard to find, even for the Devil. None vying to tend his bar had that "it" factor he required of all Lux employees. At this rate, he would have to beg his demon Mazikeen return to her old post. The thought did not appeal, given the sour note they'd parted on after the death of an old friend.

Lucifer drained the last of his scotch and slid from the stool at the black cocktail table where he'd been conducting interviews. Gathering the small pile of resumes he'd acquired in the process, he folded them indifferently. They were destined for the bin.

As he was turning toward the stairwell to leave, the golden, glass door to Lux's entrance flung wide. A young woman rushed in, her wavy, brown locks swishing around her angular face. Lucifer paused and stared as she clutched the mezzanine's railing and looked down at him. She was striking and strangely familiar. 

"Hi," she said, chest heaving as she gasped for air.

"Hello…" Lucifer tilted his head. "We're closed. But can I help you?" He could think of many ways he'd _like_ to. 

She smiled a megawatt smile that he felt himself return. "You're a Brit."

"Well, it's certainly true I'm not from around here."

Slim and bedecked in tights swallowed by black tall boots, she was bloody breathtaking. The soft cream skin of her midriff peeked out beneath a wine-colored halter top and black leather jacket, revealing the sinuous shape of what appeared to be a tattooed serpent slithering about her middle. 

"Are you still doing interviews?" 

Ah. Lucifer tapped the worthless resumes on the nearest cocktail table. "'Fraid not."

"Can you make an exception?"

"Miss…?"

"Chloe Decker."

"Miss _Decker_ ," Lucifer said firmly, "you certainly look the part, I'll give you that, but I do happen to be running a business, den of sin though it may be. I require dependability." In his experience, dependability was next to discretion, a necessary trait in any Lux employee, given the present era's pesky drug war and the puritanical ban on sex work. "Now, if you'd like to stay a while, I can offer you a dri—"

"I'm dependable!" she insisted. "My bike broke down on the way here. I had to catch an Uber." Her shoulders slumped, and she smiled tremulously. " _Please_. I really, _really_ need this job."

Lucifer studied her. The longer he looked, the more familiar she seemed and the more intrigued he became. With a long, put-upon sigh, he beckoned her with a flick of his fingers. "Very well, Miss Decker. Come impress me."

"Thank you!" She rushed down the stairs as he settled on the stool at the same cocktail table he'd occupied before she'd arrived. As he set aside the old stack of resumes, she came to a stop beside the table and pulled a folded piece of paper from a back pocket. "My resume."

Not exactly the height of professionalism, but he liked her moxie. Taking the warm paper, he unfolded it without complaint. "I'm Lucifer, by the way," he said, holding out his other hand. "Lucifer Morningstar."

Chloe grinned as they shook. "Great stage name," she effused, the low light of the bar sparkling in her blue eyes.

He chuckled. "Oh, it's God-given, I'm afraid." 

While she settled across from him, he scanned her experience with mild interest. Oh, dear. She referred to herself as a _mixologist_. Was she being ironic? He glanced at her briefly as she pushed soft bangs away from her eyes. Hard to say with this "millennial" generation. At least her experience was decent—small bars, mostly, with a brief stint at hotels, and more recently time spent working in dreaded chain restaurants. 

Flicking the resume aside, he leaned an elbow on the table. "So. Why Lux, Miss Decker?"

"You mean...why do I want to work here?"

"Yes, that."

"It seems like a cool place? Cooler than where I'm working now, definitely." She looked around the bar, taking in its darkness and its golden lights before her gaze returned to him. "And, you know, I need the money."

" _Of course_. You humans," he said, wagging a finger at her, "you love your money, don't you?"

"Uh…" She shrugged and breathed out a laugh. "It pays the bills, right?"

Lucifer asked after her skills and ability to work under pressure. She was clever and could list the ingredients to more drinks than most. He'd watch her on the job, but she seemed a surprisingly good fit.

"I like you, Miss Decker." She grinned. "Just a few more things, if you'll indulge me."

"Sure."

"I require discretion." He tapped a long pointer finger on the table. "Will that be a problem?"

Chloe folded her arms over her chest. "I knew the pay was too good to be true. Look, I won't do anything illegal, if that's what you're asking."

"Then you won't sell the narcotics behind my counter," he assured her. "All I ask is you look the other way."

"Not the first bar I've worked at like that."

"I also allow sex workers in my establishment."

"Oh. Uh, okay."

"Several operate out of rooms in this building."

Her eyes widened. "You're running a _brothel_?" 

"I'm providing a safe environment for something that would exist, regardless."

"I didn't say I had an issue with it. In theory."

"Good. I'm fair to them. They pay for the rooms, should they wish to use them, but they keep their earnings. I don't take a cut otherwise, and I assure they have access to healthcare." He sniffed and adjusted a cufflink. "And if you catch wind of a pimp, you are to report to me."

She opened her mouth, only to pause. "What do you do to them?"

"Worried for the safety of flesh peddlers, Miss Decker?"

"I didn't say that."

Lucifer smirked. "Have you ever heard the phrase 'put the fear of God in' a man?" He nodded with her. "That's nothing compared to striking in them fear of the Devil."

Her eyes jumped left and right as she regarded him. "Okay."

"Excellent. And not a word to the cops about any of this, yes?"

"So long as I don't see anybody hurting someone else, I'm not gonna rat you out. I hate cops."

"Rebel after my own heart."

"Not a rebel. Not really. Just not down with cops. Especially the LAPD."

Interesting. There was a story there, but he sensed it was best left for another day. "Well, seems we're on the same page, then. When can you start?"

"Oh!" Excitement lit up her entire being. "Um, tonight! If you need me."

"Let's make that tomorrow." Rising, he went to the bar and leaned over its counter, where he retrieved a napkin and pen. He scribbled a name and address on the Lux-stamped paper. "Go here first thing in the morning," he said, handing it to her. "That's my tailor. She'll fit you for a uniform."

Chloe stared at the address. "There are tailored uniforms?"

"Bonnie will have it ready for you by tomorrow night. Come in at eight. I'll have papers for you to sign, and Patrick will help you get settled."

"So I'm really supposed to sign a contract with the Devil?" she teased.

He chuckled. He did love the company of playful women. "If you don't like the terms, Miss Decker, I'm sure we can come up with some way to sweeten the deal."

As they looked at each other, good humor quirking their mouths, a moment of exquisite tension warmed between them, like a vibrating musical note plucked from a string. His eyes dropped to the serpent snaking around her skin, and he imagined where the head and tail might lead. She had secrets, this one. 

Clapping her hands together suddenly, Chloe slid from the stool. " _So_. Eight. I'll be here."

"Yes, eight." Flashing a grin, he took up two glasses and a bottle of scotch from the bar. "Now, about tonight… I've got all the bartenders I need, but you're welcome to stay and have a little fun." He poured scotch into his glass and wagged the bottle above the second in offering. "What do you say? Care to have a drink with me, Miss Decker?"

Her eyes swept over him. She was thinking about it. Any woman remotely interested in men did. But then she surprised him by shaking her head. "Thanks, but...no, thanks. I should get going, you know, if I'm gonna see your tailor tomorrow." She held up the folded napkin with a smile. "Since having a tailor for uniforms is a thing you have."

"Right." He set down the bottle. "I'll bid you goodnight, then." Lucifer watched the sway of her hips as she turned toward the stairwell. "Oh! One thing before you go, Miss Decker."

She looked at him over her shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Why do you seem so familiar? I could swear I’ve seen you naked," he said, with a bewildered shake of his head. "Have we had sex?"

"Seriously?" Her head fell back as she laughed. "Nope. Think I'd remember that."

"True. I am _very_ memorable." 

She snickered. "You probably remember me from when I went topless in a movie."

"Did you now!" Lucifer crowed. "Gosh, aren't you full of surprises."

"Sometimes people recognize me." She glanced down at her tattooed middle. "Even after all the ink."

"I'm sure you left quite the impression on many a man's formative years. What movie was it?"

" _Hot Tub High School_." She rolled her eyes.

"Wait. _Really_?" Be still his heart. He pointed a finger at her in sudden recognition. "You're _Chloe Decker_ Chloe Decker."

"Yep, that's me."

"You were quite funny in that, like a new Phoebe Cates." He paused, fondly remembering the eponymous hot tub scene. Now that he knew what he recognized her from, he couldn't get it out of his head. He might rewatch it, come to think of it. "Really, that was quite the nude scene, Miss Decker."

"It was also filmed about half my lifetime ago."

"Oh, I'm sure you've held up quite well."

"Gee, thanks." 

"Why ever would you leave behind the limelight?"

"It wasn't for me." Her amused expression fell and twisted into something pained. "I guess you could say my life took a turn."

"Ah. I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be." She raised her chin. "I'm who I am because of it." 

He gave a close-lipped smile. "That I can empathize with, Miss Decker."

"With a name like Lucifer, you just might." She returned his sad smile and lifted a hand. "Have a good night, Mr. Morningstar." 

Long after she left, he stood still, staring at the entrance door.

* * *

Steam curled above the coffee cup Chloe clutched in her hand as she pushed her way into Bonnie B's Alterations. Shoving dark sunglasses to the top of her head, she blinked hard, adjusting to the yellow fluorescents in the cramped space. A clothes rack stood to the left of the door, bursting with shirts, pants, jackets, and garment bags. To the right, a wooden chair with a worn, blue seat cushion faced an old, boxy CRT television that was stacked atop an even older TV. A morning show played at low volume, the meteorologist warning of wildfires to the north, while a stainless steel pot on the floor beside the televisions caught water dripping from the ceiling.

None of it screamed quality alterations, and Chloe glanced back at the faded, worn logo on the glass door to make sure she'd entered the right place.

"Mornin', sweetheart!" A middle-aged white woman with bottle red hair waddled out from a backroom, smiling behind blue cat-eye glasses. "I'm Bonnie," she explained, adjusting the pink t-shirt over her large bosom, "and you must be Miss Chloe Decker."

"Uh, yeah?" She smiled hesitantly. "Did Mr. Morningstar tell you I'd be coming or something?"

"Baby doll, I am on that man's speed dial. I get everything from work orders to hot gossip." She jerked her head toward the backroom. "Come on back and let me get you fitted."

The backroom was even worse than the waiting room. Mountains of fabric towered atop what must be tables, though no visible surfaces could be seen. Three mannequins stood in various states of undress, their blank faces almost as full of cool judgment as their clothes were of silver pins. 

A big woman, Bonnie huffed and puffed as she moved the heaped piles of material while muttering to herself. 

"Here we go!" Standing straight, she shook a black shirt toward Chloe. "Put this on, would you?" She pointed to a rattan divider that had been shoved into one corner of the room for some semblance of privacy. 

Chloe stared at the scant material for a long moment before taking hold of what was surprisingly thick cotton. The black, button down halter top had three-quarter-length sleeves and was cut to a point that would show the inked flames that licked across the skin of her lower back. 

"Is this what all the bartenders wear?" she asked dryly, already knowing the answer.

"Mr. Morningstar requests slight customizations to every bartender's uniform."

"Uh-huh. Even the men's?"

Ducking her chin, Bonnie looked at Chloe over the rim of her glasses. "The men's, too, honey."

" _Oh_." Laughter burbled out of Chloe. "I guess he and I have more in common than I realized." 

Bonnie snickered while Chloe shuffled behind the divider and yanked off her t-shirt. 

The curiosity this man had inspired in her was eating her alive. She'd never stepped foot in Lux before yesterday—the lines and the cover charge weren't worth it—but her interview with Lucifer Morningstar had ensured she'd never forget it. He'd given her the strangest interview of her life, which was saying something when you worked in the service industry. He had managed to make it both casual and serious, and she still wasn't quite sure what she'd gotten herself into. All she knew was the pay was second to none, especially with steady hours, and just about anything would be better than another night serving baby boomers and assholes at Applebee's.

Having donned the black halter top, Chloe came out from behind the divider. "Does it really need altering?" she asked, pulling at the fabric near her ribs. "It seems to fit okay."

" _Okay_ is not what I do," Bonnie said, coming toward her with a tomato pin cushion. Tsking beneath her breath, she grabbed hold of the hem and began tucking.

"Anything I should know about my new boss?" She hoped she sounded casual.

"Well, he's gonna try to sleep with you."

The thought of it exploded across her mind's eye, as it had several times since last night. He was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. Not good. "Oh, I don't—"

"I say let him. I had a helluva time."

Chloe's eyes widened. She snapped her mouth shut when she realized it had fallen open.

"Best night of my life. That man lifted me clear off the floor—and you see how many decades of good cookin' I'm packing."

"Wow."

"All I'm saying is he found places my ex-husband couldn't get to with a goddamn map." Chloe held back a cackle as Bonnie stabbed another pin into place. "Just consider it, if you get the chance."

"Well. That's...definitely not gonna happen." He was hot, and he'd made it clear he was into her, but there were lines she wouldn't cross.

"If you say so, honey." Bonnie took hold of Chloe's elbows and lifted her arms in the air. 

Searching for a safer topic, Chloe glanced around the messy room. "How did Mr. Morningstar find you?"

"You mean how'd a man like that come to be in my podunk little shop?" At Chloe's horrified expression, she laughed. "I know how it looks, and I know I'm a mess, but I'm also damn _good_ at what I do." She shrugged a shoulder. "Lucifer asked around, and he ended up at my door. Now we have our arrangement."

"Arrangement?"

"I tailor everything he throws at me, and he's putting my son through college."

Who _was_ this guy? "That's a pretty sweet deal." 

"Sure is. Not to say I don't bust my ass on his suits, and he's _always_ buying new ones. Doesn't ever let the designer tailor it." Bonnie smiled as she poked another needle through the cotton. "He's weird as hell, but he's a good guy, even if he'll tell you he's not."

"You mean the whole Devil...thing."

"Everybody's got their daddy issues, right?"

"Yeah," Chloe said, her voice soft as she thought of her own father. 

"Don't let it freak you out, though." Bonnie laughed. "It's not like he's the actual Devil."

Chloe grinned at that. "If he is, he can't say I'm not a sympathizer," she joked. Turning her right hand palm up, she showed Bonnie the pentagram tattooed on the inside of her wrist. It was just one of many Satanic tattoos she'd gotten over the years.

"Huh." A dark eyebrow lifted above cat-eye glasses. "Would you look at that." Reaching between them, Bonnie loosened an extra button on Chloe's halter top. "There," she decided. "That's better."

* * *

The first few nights at Lux were hell for a newbie. Even on a Tuesday, the bar was busy. Chloe liked the challenge, though, and found her groove as she muddled through drink orders, made small talk with clubgoers, and memorized the names and faces of Lux's other employees.

She looked the other way as pills and powders and bottles exchanged hands offering cold cash. And if suggestively dressed women and men drew people into the elevator, her eyes didn't see it. She wondered what her dad would think about that. Would he be disappointed in his only child? But he was long gone, and at some point the grit of nightlife had become hers. She felt at home among people who were searching for something, whether that was a night to forget the day or a companion to chase away loneliness.

Lux was a good place to come if you were seeking distraction. Between slinging drinks and cleaning, Chloe watched the enigmatic Lucifer Morningstar roam his club like a charismatic prince. He slipped into any conversation and made sure no one felt left out. Wallflowers were dragged into the fray. Those he liked most, he disappeared with for hours or a night.

On the surface, he seemed like any other socialite playboy, but she couldn't help but wonder if something much bigger was going on behind the scenes. Bigger, even, than the drugs and prostitutes, or the occasional important-looking businessman or woman who came to shake Mr. Morningstar's hand. She just couldn't quite put her finger on what it was about him that was so different. Maybe he was in the mob or the son of someone powerful.

Maybe she was overthinking it.

Then, on her fourth night of bartending, three dancers rolled a black piano through the wide double doors of Lux's backroom. Chloe had seen the beautiful, polished Steinway every time she'd put her jacket away before starting her shift, but she'd kept forgetting to mention it. Lux hadn't really struck her as a piano bar.

"Is there a show on or something?" she asked Patrick, while thinly slicing limes to garnish cocktails.

Patrick glanced at her out of the corner of an eye lined with kohl. "I forgot you wouldn't know yet," he said, clearly amused. 

"Know what?" Chloe liked Patrick and felt herself smiling with him, even if she didn't understand what was funny. A skinny-tie-wearing punk at heart, his dry sense of humor had helped keep her sane as she got into the flow of the job. It also didn't hurt that they shared a love for ink.

He nodded toward the dance floor at the same time the volume to the club's music was turned down and then off. Chloe followed his gaze to where Mr. Morningstar, of all people, had settled at a bench before the piano. Soft light fell upon his dark hair and the dark shirt and vest that encased his body. 

The hand she was holding her paring knife in fell limp as he began to play. The tune was familiar, some cover of a famous song, though she couldn't place it. She looked around the club. Some had paused to watch him, but most had clustered into the half-moon booths to talk.

"He's good, right?" Patrick said.

Chloe stared at Mr. Morningstar. "He's definitely not what I was expecting."

"We all go through that."

He stayed at the piano, drifting aimlessly from one tune to the next. She'd seen him in lots of different ways since the night of her interview—jovial, flirty, imposing, sly—but this, she thought, was contentment. Eyes closed in pleasure, he was somewhere good, or at least somewhere real and raw.

When his whiskey glass ran dry, she filled a tumbler with their best top shelf and made her way around the bar. As she neared the piano, Mr. Morningstar's mouth twitched.

"Hello, Miss Decker." He continued to play as he looked up and watched her exchange his empty glass for the fresh one. "Thank you. I was beginning to wonder if I was paying you to tend my bar or watch my every move."

Her cheeks heated. "Sorry," she mumbled, flustered. "I'll get back—"

"I didn't say I minded, did I?" Grinning, he stopped playing and reached for the drink she'd brought him. "You're welcome to ask me questions, you know. I'm an open book, and I never lie."

Turning back to him, Chloe opened her mouth, but hesitated to give voice to her curiosity. Most of her questions were about things that weren't any of her business, especially considering he was her boss. "That's okay." She glanced at the bar, where a small line of people had gathered. "I really should get back to helping Patrick."

But as she made to leave, Mr. Morningstar reached out and grabbed her right hand. "Wait."

Chloe looked down at where his palm engulfed hers. The touch was wildly inappropriate— _creepy_ , even. She should tear away from him, smack his hand, do _something_. But she didn't want to, and she didn't _feel_ afraid or creeped out. 

"People usually like to tell me things," he said, with a bewildered shake of his head. "But you… You're a tough nut to crack, aren't you?"

"People tell you things," she repeated. Then she laughed, as she put it all together. "What, like, you're the Devil, and people confess their sins?" 

"What? _No_ ," he scoffed. "I have no control over anyone's sins. But I do have the ability to draw out people’s forbidden desires."

The words sent a tiny, pleasurable frisson through her stomach. "Oh, really?" she said dryly. 

She glanced down to where he still held her hand and followed the lines of his fingers up, across his arm, along the regal column of his neck, and back to his face. Leaning his other elbow against the top of the piano, Mr. Morningstar edged closer as he looked up at her, his fingers twitching across her skin.

"Really." He stared into her eyes. "So, tell me, Miss Decker, what is it _you_ desire?"

Chloe stared back, feeling silly the longer they looked at each other, until she had the nearly uncontrollable urge to roar with laughter. "That's your big trick?" she snorted. "People just answer that question?"

Mr. Morningstar pulled back slightly, his brows pinching. His mouth opened and closed as he looked her over, from head to toe. Suddenly, his gaze froze. "You have a pentagram on your wrist," he said, turning her hand to study the tattoo. "Why do you have a pentagram on your wrist?"

Just how far did this shtick of his go? Smiling, she tilted her left hand so he could see the inside of her other wrist, where an eye framed within a triangle was set among rays of light. "And a third eye on this one." She chuckled awkwardly. "I guess you could say we're both a fan of the Devil. Pretty ironic, right?"

Mr. Morningstar's eyes jumped back to hers. "Ironic, yes..." He looked entirely bewildered by something—by _her_ , maybe, though she couldn't understand why. "Did my father send you?"

Chills swept down Chloe's spine. So maybe she wasn't too far off the mark, thinking he came from a mob family. "I don't think so," she said. "I'd know, right?"

"One would assume," he murmured. He still held her hand, and his thumb had begun to brush back and forth across the pentagram on her wrist. Chloe tried to ignore it, tried to force herself to pull away, but she stayed, all her nerve endings seemingly bunching in that singular spot. "Of course, Dad likes to toy with all of us—me, most of all." 

They fell quiet, and Chloe noticed someone had turned the music back on at some point. It embarrassed her a little, realizing how long she must have stood here, holding her boss's hand. "I should—"

"Yes, of course," he said, letting go of her at once. "Gosh, there's quite a queue now, isn't there? Thank you for the drink, Miss Decker."

"No problem," she murmured.

As she walked away, she felt his eyes on the skin of her back. She drew the fingers of her right hand into her palm; her flesh was still warm where he'd touched her. Or maybe that was imagined. Maybe it was just part of the familiar floating sensation stirring within her as she crossed the room. 

Not good, she thought, joining Patrick behind the bar. Not good at all.


	2. Who Are You?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... When I posted this, I told myself I would do the shorter version of the story I had in mind, but actually I like the full story, so I'm going to make it a longfic. Hope you'll enjoy the ride with me. :)

Lifting a hand in a marginally friendly wave, Lucifer cut across two lanes of busy Los Angeles traffic. His beloved 1963 Chevrolet Corvette purred like a big, black cat beneath the noonday sun as other drivers raised middle fingers and honked their horns. They could bloody sod off. He had bigger problems, namely he couldn't read his sinfully hot bartender's desires. Which had never happened to him before and should not, in fact, be possible at all. Reading people's desires was what the Devil _did_.

Something was very wrong. 

Afflicted with an existential dilemma not even a kilo of coke could burn off (he'd tried), he was resorting to L.A.'s other favorite pastime: therapy. 

He didn't much care for the industry. The endless talk-about-your-feelings bollocks made him itch. But he was a big enough Devil that he could admit Dr. Linda Martin had been moderately helpful following the death of a former employee and friend, who herself had been one of Linda's patients. 

Being human, Linda would be clueless about celestial woes, but she'd do in a pinch. Anyway, the good doctor accepted off-the-book payments and happened to be a wonderful lay, so at least if he couldn't solve his bartender sitch, he'd get off for the trouble of trying.

At the squat Willox Medical Building where Linda practiced, he strode past the beige reception desk with its wilted snake plant and dish of aging sugar-free candy. Ignoring the elderly secretary's alarmed call, he made his way down a familiar hallway and took the elevator to Linda's floor, where he bypassed a second, equally drab waiting area and burst into her office.

"Hello again, Doctor!" he said cheerily, one hand already busy unbuttoning his black dress shirt. "Miss me?"

The burly, scraggly-bearded man currently on the therapy couch backed into one corner of the cushions and howled several octaves higher than Lucifer might have expected for a man of his size.

"Bloody hell." Lucifer leaned back in offense. "A chap like you should be in choir, not therapy."

"Philip!" Linda cried, half-rising from her chair across from the couch. "It's okay!" she assured him, holding her hands up as if to soothe a startled animal. She glared at Lucifer. It wasn't a particularly threatening expression from a blond as vertically-challenged as she. "Lucifer, as pleased as I am to see you return to therapy, you don't have an appointment. And as you can see, I am with another patient."

Lucifer glanced between Linda and the whimpering would-be lumberjack on her worn, grey therapy couch. "My problems are more pressing," he decided. Pulling a wad of cash from a pocket, he held it out to the other man, who quaked at Lucifer's approach but also couldn't take his eyes off the money. Amazing. "Go on, Phil. Buy yourself something pretty—some beard oil, perhaps. Maybe some—" Raising his brows, he put forefinger and thumb to his lips and puffed, miming a joint. "For the nerves."

"Philip, you don't have to—"

"Uh, see you next week, Linda," Philip said, snatching the money, jumping up, and rushing from the room on a breeze of Old Spice.

Lucifer closed the door behind him. "Right. Now we can discuss real problems. Mine."

For a long moment Linda only stared at him; then she chuckled low in her throat. "Where do we begin?" She sat once more in her chair across from the couch and smoothed her white blouse and red pencil skirt. "We haven't seen each other in almost a year, Lucifer."

"Has it really been that long?" He wished it were longer. Settling on the couch, he returned to unbuttoning his shirt. "Don't worry, Doctor, I remember the cost of admission. Now, was I in arrears or did you want to be?"

She turned her head, though her eyes strained sideways beneath the black frames of her glasses. "Please keep your shirt on."

He frowned. Was it possible for the Devil to lose his touch? "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"But I thought you'd be positively ravenous after all this time."

"Oh, I am," she admitted, and he grinned in relief as her eyes bulged with the confession. " _But_ I spent at least some of this past year reflecting on our previous arrangement—"

"Good for the old finger vault, was it?"

"The thing is, I told myself that if you ever came back, we would have"—she folded her hands primly—"a _professional_ relationship."

"Well, that's boring." He pouted. "Whatever happened to sexual healing, Doctor?"

"Believe me, I'm questioning the decision, too." Tearing her eyes away from his chest as it disappeared behind his dress shirt, she cleared her throat. "But we made progress last time—real progress—and I value that." 

"Did we?"

She smiled a little. "Enough so that I've actually brushed up on my religious studies since we last saw each other."

Oh, goody. "That so?"

"Yep. So, with the understanding that you should make an appointment next time—"

"This won't be a regular thing."

"Just in case: appointments are necessary. Anyway, you're here now, I guess, so... What's troubling the Prince of Darkness?"

"Right…" His brows pinched with his doubt. "Well. Until recently, nothing."

"That's good to hear." She squinted. "What changed?"

"I hired a new bartender."

"Bad employee?"

"No, no. She's bloody brilliant." Catnip for the Devil aside, Miss Decker was a damn good bartender. "But she insists upon refusing my charms."

Linda's brows lifted high. "Lucifer, women don't have to accept your charms."

"Of course not," he scoffed, "but they always _do_." Holding out his arms, he gazed down at himself. "I mean, look at me. I'm lucky to find a bloke this fit on a Saturday night, and I own a premier nightclub in Los Angeles."

"Yes, but maybe this—what's your new bartender's name?"

"Miss Decker."

Linda cocked her head to one side. "Does she have a first name?"

"Chloe." Lucifer crossed his legs and re-situated himself on the couch.

"Okay." Linda smiled. "Maybe Chloe is different."

"Yes, as I _said_ , Doctor. The question is _how_ she's different."

"Does she need a reason?" She shrugged a shoulder. "Maybe it's not actually Chloe who's different. Maybe _you're_ different with her."

"No." He shook his head. "No, that's not it." His thumb worried at a black-jeweled ring on his middle finger. "There's just something about her." Leaning forward and lowering his voice, he stage-whispered, "Honestly, I'm worried she's a plant."

Linda stared at him and nodded slowly. "I see… And who would be trying to infiltrate your nightclub, Lucifer?"

"Well, my Father, of course."

"God, you mean."

"Mm." Resettling against the couch cushions, he heaved a deep sigh. "Trying to renege on our recent deal, maybe?" He knew it was too good to be true. Should have had the Bastard sign something—not that there was anyone above _God_ to enforce such contracts. "Some bloody new mind game to make me want to go back to Hell full-time? As if that's possible."

"Hmm. Lucifer, do you remember what we were discussing before you left therapy?"

He smirked. "You mean the fantasy three-way with Ryan Gosling?" 

"No. _No_. That was _after_ your last session."

"What can I say, Doctor?" he purred. "I've always enjoyed debt repayment."

"Lucifer, stop avoiding the subject." 

His smirk fell. "Fine." He adjusted his suit jacket. "As I recall, you had the preposterous theory that my time in L.A. was changing me."

The smile on her face pleased him, even as he wished it didn't. "Was it really that preposterous?"

"Yes, because I've gone back to my normal, devilish self now, haven't I? No pesky empathy to be found."

"Maybe," Linda allowed, her doubt obvious. "But if some _part_ of you were still changing or opening up"—she ignored his scoff—"would it really be that surprising to discover your interactions with others have changed, too?" 

"So what you're saying is I need to interact with her more, to prove she's a plant."

"Nope. Not what I meant." She shook her head. "But that isn't the worst idea."

"Excellent." Lucifer jumped to his feet, feeling renewed. "Maybe there's still something to this therapy business, after all." He strode to the door and yanked it open. "Thank you, Doctor."

"Lucifer, wait," Linda called, and he glanced back, one foot already across the threshold. "Just…respect her boundaries. She's your employee."

* * *

Chloe watched Mr. Morningstar exit his elevator and strut into Lux like it was any other night. Which it was. It was just another night. Definitely not different, simply because they'd gotten weirdly close the night before and she'd stayed up until 5:00 a.m. Googling him like some psycho ex. 

She tried to ignore him as she fulfilled drink orders and he mingled, but her eyes were drawn to him like magnets to midnight iron. She found him in the crowd again and again—not a hard thing to do with a man of his stature and charisma, but it was more than that, as well. If she looked closely, she saw how people moved with him, as if they were caught in his orbit like schools of fish spinning in a whirlpool.

He chatted up Lux's dancers and patrons with his usual aplomb—a grin here, a laugh there, a touch, a kiss, a twirl on the dance floor—but he didn't linger like he had on other nights. It soon became obvious he was only putting in an appearance. With his social obligations fulfilled, she watched in alarm as he gravitated slowly but surely toward the bar, where he sat on a stool across from her and smoothed his black shirt. He smiled cheekily at her, as if they shared some secret. 

It was bad enough the man didn't understand professional boundaries. It was way worse that she kind of enjoyed it.

"I've a confession, Miss Decker," he said over the club's music and conversation.

Chloe poured an expensive Dalmore for the man she was learning only had expensive tastes. "Should I get my priest?"

"You're _religious_?" He gawked.

"Not really." She slid the glass to him. "It's complicated."

He glanced at the serpent tattoo winding around her curves. "I'll say."

"So what's your confession?"

"Right." He nodded the lip of his glass toward her. "I did a bit of digging into your past." She stared at him dully, even as her heart thundered in her chest. "And what should I discover but that your mother's _Penelope Decker_ , queen of eighties cheeseball sci-fi."

"Oh. Yeah." Chloe resisted the urge to sag in relief. "That's my mom, all right."

"You have to introduce me."

"Mm, I don't. And I probably won't." That level of extroversion in one room might be a safety hazard. 

"I'd no idea I had a member of Hollywood dynasty working at my bar."

"Only if you think B movie celebrities count, which they don't." She shook her head. "Actually, _B_ movie is probably pushing it."

" _Pah_ , who cares what the suits think? I _love_ those movies, same as I love yours." 

Stomach flipping in pleasure, she looked toward the other end of the bar when a woman laughed loudly. A large group had filtered in, and Patrick and Kendra were juggling orders with pinched expressions. They needed help, and Chloe _would_ help, but first… Folding her arms, she leaned on the counter. Mr. Morningstar grinned and leaned in, too. He smelled of cigarette smoke, which she didn't care for, and something clean and rich, like cedarwood and vanilla, which she liked.

"You know, you're not the only one who can play detective," she revealed, blood rushing in her veins. She had an impulsive streak, but she'd never spoken to a boss like this in her life.

The dark, drawn lines of Mr. Morningstar's eyes narrowed. "I'm surprised you weren't provided with a full dossier on me."

Her thoughts stumbled over his words. "Huh?"

"No need for the roleplay, Miss Decker—at least, not in this context. As I told you, I'm an open book." Leaning back again, he sipped his scotch, his jaw tight. "I'm curious, though. What is it you think you've found on me?"

"For one? As far as I can tell, you didn't exist six years ago." 

She'd even accessed old newspaper archives. "Lucifer Morningstar" was a ghost—until suddenly he wasn't. Until suddenly he burst onto L.A.'s night scene and popped up at black tie events for everything from fashion shows to charitable causes she seriously doubted he cared about. 

"I wasn't on the earthly plane, no." She rolled her eyes, and he shrugged. "Is this your normal reaction to your employers? Investigating them? Might be why you were stuck at Crapplebee's."

"I'm curious by nature."

"Well, we've that in common." Kicking back the last of his scotch, he slid the empty glass toward her expectantly. Chloe added _high-functioning alcoholic_ to the growing list of his weird traits. "Look," he continued, "if Dad's not sent you to torment me, why don't I affect you then, hmm? What makes you different?" 

At that, Chloe grinned. The nerve of this guy, thinking there was something wrong with her for not falling for his pickup lines. It was hard to tell whether Mr. Morningstar was a rich mobster, a comedian, a whackjob, or D, all of the above. 

"I guess we both have our mysteries," she said, handing him a full glass before turning to help Patrick and Kendra.

* * *

They developed an ill-advised routine. Every night that Chloe worked, Lucifer made his way to the bar to pester her with questions, some of which she even obliged with answers, more of which she pushed back against with questions of her own. Any other guy she'd tell to buzz off, but her coworkers didn't seem to resent the attention she was receiving from their boss, and it was happening on his dime, so what did it matter? At least that was the story she told herself. 

While Chloe scooped ice into a bucket, Lucifer lifted a pointer finger from the tumbler of scotch he was holding and circled it in her direction. "So what's with all the ink, Miss Decker?"

She was surprised it had taken him this long to ask. "I like it."

"With tattoos like yours, there's got to be more to the story than that."

"There is," she confirmed vaguely, just to aggravate him.

He sighed. "How many tattoos do you have?"

Stuffing a bottle of Bollinger into the ice, Chloe smirked. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Very much so." His perpetually mischievous grin turned sly. "Tell you what, I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

She snorted, giving up. "I have eight or ten, ish, depending on how you count them." 

A blush crept over her skin as his eyes traveled up and down the part of her body that was visible over the counter. He never made any attempt to hide his interest, which was flattering and rude, all at once. In some other life where he wasn't her boss and her life wasn't a mess, she was sure she'd take him up on the offer. If nothing else, the girls who departed from his penthouse—or the backrooms—sure as hell left the building with a smile.

"Are all your tattoos infernal?"

"Um, mostly."

"You know, it's a travesty you keep them hidden."

Rolling her eyes, she tucked the bucket of ice in the crook of one arm and gathered champagne flutes in her other hand. She smirked at him as she rounded the bar. "Makes me fun to unwrap, though," she teased over her shoulder.

" _Touché_ , Miss Decker," he breathed, spinning on the barstool to watch her go.

As she wove through Lux's quiet Wednesday night crowd, a nervous pit grew in her belly. If she didn't want to get burned, she should stop playing with fire now. She needed this job, and not just for the incomprehensibly steady hours and good pay, but for the small window of peace a new place of employment afforded her. It wouldn't last, but for now she was getting good sleep. 

It'd be stupid to throw that away for, what, a dumb fling with a hot mess of a man? Not to mention he might be a little, well, crazy. She rolled with his weirdness—it wasn't even that hard after years in the service industry—and he seemed harmless enough so far. But she was beginning to think he _actually_ believed he was the Devil—some immortal, fallen son of God, as he liked to tell it. You got used to seeing and hearing crazy shit as a bartender in L.A., but club-owning party-Devil took the cake.

The flirting needed to stop—the innuendo, the late-night Googling, all of it. 

When she returned to the bar, Mr. Morningstar was still there, glass dry again. With an elbow propped on the counter and his artfully stubbled chin resting on his palm, he stared blankly at one of the two TV screens mounted at either end of the liquor shelves. The screens played a video of a curvy woman's silhouette dancing in an endless, sensual loop. 

"Hey." Chloe took up her station behind the bar counter as he blinked and sat up. "I think we should have a talk abou—"

"Is it money you're after?" he interrupted, sounding bewildered.

Chloe's eyes widened. "What?"

"That's it, isn't it?" Mr. Morningstar huffed, whipping a money clip out of a pocket and loosening bills from its claw. "Go on. Name your price, Miss Decker."

" _Excuse me_?" 

Smiling giddily, he laid out five one hundred dollar bills on the counter with a flourish. Chloe's mouth dropped open. He could _not_ seriously think she would sleep with him for money. He might run a brothel by any other name in the rooms upstairs, but she had no interest in being a sex worker herself.

"How's five hundred?"

"You already pay me," she snapped, slapping her hands over the hundreds and shoving them back toward him with a nervous glance around the club. Lowering her voice, she added angrily, "And I don't sleep with people for money."

"What?" he laughed. " _Oh_! Right. No. No, this is for information. I don't pay for sex."

"Information?"

"Yes," he said, pushing the money back. "I don't _understand_ you, and I'd like to."

"Why do you care?"

"Curious by nature, remember?"

"And you think this is how you're going to understand me, by _putting coins in_?" 

"Why not? You cared about money when I interviewed you."

"Yeah," she deadpanned, "because I have bills, like I told you. Just like anyone else—even you, though I guess it wouldn't surprise me to learn _you_ have no idea what you're paying for anything." In Lux, even the dish rags had designer labels. She'd never seen anything like it.

"Hard to care about money when you're richer than God."

"Does God have a bank account?" she joked, unable to stop herself. 

"Don't be absurd." He sighed wearily, as if he couldn't believe her ignorance. "How 'bout a favor of your choosing, then?" Picking up the cash, he stuffed it back into his pocket. "No money need be involved."

"What, like the deal you have going with Bonnie and her son?"

"You little minx," he crowed. "You've been asking about me since day _one_ , haven't you?" 

"Yeah, well, you kinda seem like…" She hesitated.

"Go on," he said, leaning on the counter. "Say it."

"Like you're a mob boss."

Groaning, he leaned back again. "I'm not in the bloody _mob_ ," he said, disappointed. "I'm immortal."

"Uh-huh."

"Look, _as the Devil_ , I'll give you anything you like. You must want _something_ , Miss Decker. Everyone wants something."

"You mean, 'What is it I desire?'" she quipped, rolling her eyes. 

"Yes, but no tricks. Not that they work on you, you freak." Chloe snickered. "Seriously," he pressed, his expression more open than she'd ever seen. "I really am curious."

After another moment of hesitation, she nodded and looked down at her black leather boots and the fashionable rips in her skinny jeans. She swallowed around an unexpected lump in her throat. The truth was, she desired many things, but in her experience it was dumb to make wishes, much less to expect anyone else to grant them. And what she wanted most of all, no one could give her. Not even a mob boss pretending to be some Satanic Santa.

"Thanks," she said, looking back at him, "but you can't give me what I want."

"You don't know that. Try me."

"Nope. I know." Picking up a rag, she scrubbed at the spotless counter in irritation. "And, anyway, I'm not interested in making a deal with"—she raised her hands briefly for air quotes—"the Devil." 

"But your tattoos—"

"Are about an idea, not a man."

" _I'm_ the bloody idea, Miss Decker!"

Her eyes lifted skyward in exasperation. "You're paying me to work here, aren't you?"

"I—" He frowned. "Well, yes." 

"Then let me work."

He almost looked contrite as he thumbed the ring on his right hand. "Very well, Miss Decker."

"Thank you," she said, and poured him another drink as a peace offering. 

Soon after, he drifted away from the bar, and the night flowed on, clubgoers coming and going at random. That was the thing about bartending. Orders came in waves. During the lulls, Chloe people-watched and listened to the bluesy rock music playing over the sound system. 

Lux was one of those bars where people cozied up late in the night, even during the week. In a dark corner, two men kissed like they didn't believe in air. And at eleven, a middle-aged woman in a red pantsuit arrived, only to disappear upstairs with one of the male dancers Chloe now knew wasn't _only_ a dancer. 

"Ms. Hinton treats herself on Wednesdays," Patrick explained when he caught her staring.

"Oh, yeah?" Chloe shook her head, amazed. "What _is_ this place?" 

"The Devil's bar?"

" _Please_ , you don't really believe…"

"I don't know." Patrick gave a sheepish laugh while rattling a cocktail shaker in one hand. "But stick around long enough and you'll see some shit that'll make you wonder. You're lucky Mazikeen is gone. She claimed she was the boss's demon."

"Seriously? Sounds like a sex thing."

"Maybe." He smirked. "She could be pretty wild."

"You slept with her, didn't you?"

"Sometimes," he laughed. 

_Men_. "What happened to her?"

Ice clinked into a glass as Patrick opened the shaker above it. "Well…" Glancing around, he spoke more softly, "A girl who used to work here got killed last year, shot right outside Lux, actually. Mr. Morningstar was with her, but survived. You probably heard about it—the singer Delilah?"

"Oh." The hairs on Chloe's arms rose. "Yeah, I remember her. That was awful." 

For a while there, it was like Delilah was the only singer on the radio. Looking out over the club, Chloe imagined the blond leaning on Mr. Morningstar's piano while his fingers danced across the keys and she belted out a song. Delilah's music hadn't been Chloe's thing, but there was no question the girl had pipes.

"Yeah, bothered the boss for a while. Stirred up some shit between him and Maze. She was gone shortly after that." He shrugged, clearly not too cut up about losing his fuck buddy.

"Did they find the killer?"

"Uh, LAPD said it was a drug thing."

"You don't sound so sure."

"Mr. Morningstar thought it was her ex. I think he confronted the guy."

Sure wouldn't be the first time the LAPD got it wrong—or didn't tell the whole truth. "What do you think? Did the ex do it?"

"No idea," Patrick said, looking out on the dwindling crowd. His brows pinched close, as if he were trying to figure something out. "But the dude's in a mental hospital now. Had a total breakdown."

She followed Patrick's gaze and landed on Mr. Morningstar, where he was seated on a crescent-shaped booth on the far side of the club. One long, dark-clad arm stretched behind a young, slender black woman. She curled into his side, her big, kinky-curly hair a halo about her head. The sapphire, sequined slip dress she wore rippled across her skin like water every time she moved. Mr. Morningstar was always with beautiful women and handsome men. 

"Are you saying you think Mr. Morningstar had something to do with Delilah's ex?"

"I don't know." 

Beneath the club's soft lighting, the woman's long, brown leg glowed where it pressed against Mr. Morningstar's. They leaned close as he spoke into her ear, and soon she was laughing, her head falling back, exposing her throat. Chloe imagined Mr. Morningstar flashing his characteristic wolfish grin a split second before sinking his teeth into tender flesh. 

Chloe blinked and looked away. Time to stop leaving the TV on while she slept. 

"Do you think he's in the mob or something?"

"Nah, too nice." Of that, Patrick seemed sure. "Scary sometimes, but nice. Means well."

Scary, but nice. "My dad used to say mobsters could be like that."

"Your dad worked with the mafia?"

"He was a cop," she corrected, eyes wandering back to Mr. Morningstar. She watched as he rose and offered a hand to his new friend. "Ran into the mob sometimes." Anticipating the inevitable question, she added, "He died in the line of duty."

Not that it was the mob who killed her father. 

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay." A lie. 

Mr. Morningstar drew his companion through the club. As they neared the bar, his dark eyes met Chloe's briefly before he continued on. In the golden mouth of the elevator car, he pulled the woman to him. Even in her white flats, she was tall, only a few inches shorter when pressed against him. He buried his fingers in her curls as the door slid closed over their beauty and lust. 

A pang of envy rippled through Chloe. It must be nice, she thought, being so free.

* * *

Shepherd of the Valley's white stucco exterior glowed lilac in the evening light. Chloe drew her motorcycle to a stop beside the mission-style church. Turning off the growling engine and dismounting, she tugged her helmet off her head and patted self-consciously at frizzy hairs that had slipped free from her long braid. 

It was Thursday night—Reconciliation night—which meant the holy rollers were out for confession, as per the small line of believers ambling through the wooden doorway and the teary-eyed man leaving the church. Clutching a sweaty paper bag in a fist, Chloe jogged up orange clay bricks and entered the building. She joined the end of a short line headed toward the confessional, behind an old white woman dressed in a baby blue cardigan she likely crocheted herself. 

The woman glanced back with a placid smile until she noticed the tattoo snaking around Chloe's exposed midriff. She scowled, and Chloe smiled brightly.

"Nice night to talk to God, am I right?"

Crossing herself, the woman spun away and shuffled forward, putting more distance between them in the line. 

There had to be at least thirty people inside the church, but it was no less peaceful than usual. Those who spoke did so in soft whispers. The indiscernible speech drifted between the pews, where heads were bowed in silent prayer, and on, up through the criss-crossing rafters of the conical ceiling. The light was gentle here, golden in hanging lanterns, glowing from red-glassed votive candles; ethereal where it flowed through stained glass depicting little horrors people called love. And behind the altar, gleaming beneath the light, was a large cross that meant everything to the believers here.

Chloe was an atheist, or something close to it, and she couldn't stand platitudes, religious or otherwise. But she liked Shepherd of the Valley. If nothing else, the church was the one place in L.A. where she felt completely safe. It would be here, long after Lux couldn't afford her peace.

When others joined the line, she let them go before her, until at last there was no one else and she was left standing before the old, wooden confessional. Holding back a smile, she pushed past a thick, red velvet curtain and entered the dark, still space. She sat on a hard, wooden bench and faced forward, feeling the presence of the priest through the wall and small screened window between them. 

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been"—she thought back to the last time she'd visited—"seven weeks since my last confession."

"I'm glad you're here," said the priest, his voice warm. "What sins are troubling you?" 

"Well, I've started working for the Devil."

There was a pause followed by a low, amused chuckle. "Chloe, is that you?" The priest ducked his head and peered closely through the screen that separated them. 

His dark, bearded face made her break into a smile. "Hey, Frank." She laughed and shook the paper bag in her hand. "If you're done with the sinners, I brought food."

* * *

"I should make you do penance," Father Frank chuckled as he led Chloe into his office at the back of the church. He flicked on a bright reading lamp, casting warm light onto his bald head and the cramped space, which was filled with books, maps, and knickknacks from a time when Frank Lawrence had definitely not been a priest, but instead a piano man touring the country with rock and roll legends.

"Don't you have to be a believer for penance to work?"

"It helps," he answered wryly, though they both knew he'd never push her to convert. 

Father Frank wasn't a fire and brimstone kind of guy, thumping his Bible about sins or the fate of wayward souls. If not for the habitual tab collar and the habitual black shirt, you might never know he was a priest at all. But you'd know he was a deeply good man.

Chloe made herself at home, as she had many times over the years. Standing at his antique mahogany work desk, she withdrew the foil-wrapped burritos from the paper bag she'd brought and laid out napkins. Father Frank hovered beside her, shoving notebooks and papers out of the war zone El Gordo's overstuffed burritos were about to create.

"I've been praying for you," he commented, sinking into his squeaky office chair behind the desk. He usually reminded her of this.

"How's that going?" Her usual reply.

"According to plan." He smiled a beatific smile. "You're a work in progress, like the rest of us." He cleared his throat as she settled into the padded, blue chair across from him. "I was worried when you didn't answer my calls."

"Sorry," she mumbled, looking down at her food.

"Things got bad again, didn't they?" She shrugged a shoulder and nodded. "You could call me, you know. I've told you I'll come get you—anywhere, any time, no questions asked."

He would, she knew. But relying on Father Frank was a last resort. She didn't want to put him at risk, too. Getting close to people was bad enough. Letting them come to her aid was out of the question.

"That's really kind, but…I'm okay. Really. Anyway, I've got my new job, so things will be all right for a little while." 

"But for how long? Chloe, you can't keep living this way. At least tell me you've given some thought to talking to Reese Getty. I know you don't like the media, but the guy won a Pulitzer and—" 

"Just leave it, Frank." 

"All right." He raised his hands in surrender before sighing deeply. "Well, how's the new job, anyway? You said you're working with the Devil now?" His mouth quirked in amusement.

" _For_ the Devil."

"Nothing like a bad boss. I had a few of those back in the day."

"Oh, he's not bad." Even if he might be a mob boss who had a habit of twenty-questioning her. "He just has this…persona? Like, he pretends he's the Devil." Which she totally wasn't into. Mouth twisting, she pulled back the foil wrapper from her burrito. "Anyway, the nightclub he runs is Lux. That tall, old building over on Sunset?"

Father Frank hummed as he scrubbed at his mouth with a napkin. "By any chance, is your new boss Lucifer Morningstar?"

Chloe coughed around her food in surprise. "You know him?" she blurted, burrito hovering near her chin. Rice and tomatoes spilled over, plopping onto the paper bag she'd laid across her lap.

"Let's just say his name comes up in confession."

"Uh, yeah," she laughed, thinking of his many lovers, "somehow that doesn't surprise me." When she noticed Father Frank staring, his dark eyes thoughtful, she self-consciously wiped at her mouth with the heel of her hand. "What?" 

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head as he picked up his burrito once more. "Only God really does work in mysterious ways sometimes."

She was too polite and too skeptical to comment on a statement like that.

They caught up on each other's lives as they ate together. She told him about her nights at Lux and recounted a slightly censored version of her morning with Bonnie B. For his part, Father Frank was busy as usual, helping the criminal, the hopeless, the poor. He saw the good in anyone who had the smallest inkling of potential. Sometimes she thought him naive for it, but it was also why she loved him. Once upon a time, he'd seen past her hurt and the fresh ink on her wrists.

When it came time for her to leave for her shift at Lux, she held Father Frank in a crushing embrace, smelling his clean cologne and the crisp detergent baked into his priestly garb.


End file.
